Ring O' Roses
by PurpleYin
Summary: They all fall. A slightly dark Post-TRF fic, with a chapter each for Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John & Molly. Everyone is affected differently and normality isn't necessarily suddenly restored when it would appear to be.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: For mentions of alcoholism & imagery of self-harm in later chapters.

Spoilers: Up to end of S2

A/N: Kindly betaread by the fab fififolle.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

- Mrs Hudson -

Plan for the Unexpected

Sherlock stands across from a woman he does not recognise. The sounds of dry painful sobs reverberate in the room. John looks every bit as uncomfortable and disturbed as he himself feels. This reaction is unexpected.

The forceful tears meld with almost laughs, stuttered breath and garbled gibberish uttered, each reaction fighting for dominance. A bodily cacophony of rage and shock and grief rushing out all at once. The near unflappable Mrs Hudson, who mildly tsk tsks at thumbs in fridge and gunshots indoors, is in hysterics. Because of him.

John guides her to an armchair, pushes her gently into it and she complies, never ceasing the racket. There's a glance from John, uncertainty, as if to say _what do we do?_ Sherlock simply sits down opposite Mrs Hudson and witnesses it all.

His natural reaction to any person immaterial to a case crying is to leave the room swiftly, relieving his senses from the useless spectacle. Sherlock does not comfort people, he is more likely the instigator of upset regardless of whether he aims for it. Hence he feels inexperienced to apply his theoretical knowledge; he wouldn't hesitate on a stranger where needed. He has done enough wrong here to be unwilling to risk further reason for recrimination. He will wait and suffer every second along with her.

As he watches her shake he tries to work out why. She hadn't cried at her husband's execution, a period she had remained wearing the wedding ring for sentiment. In the time Sherlock knew her she'd lost eight friends or relatives total – four to cancer, one suicide (pills), two to the same car crash and another by accidental self-poisoning (practically deserving a Darwin award, unfortunately they'd inflicted the world with progeny already) – for those she had never cried spare in her own room and the funeral perhaps. Publicly Mrs Hudson was a strong woman. Had her boundaries shifted to include John and he into a private sphere? Was this an indication of closeness? No.

Two minutes. There is a panic to her breaths, mind attempting to speak out and failing, gasping, that reminds him uncomfortably of a phone conversation, of a frail elderly woman who could not comprehend what was happening and eighteen people who paid the price for his inability to calm her.

Mrs Hudson is out of her element because this does not happen, it is an unaccounted for situation. Yes, people die, they do so frequently as she well knows and she gets on with life each time. She has become good at getting past sadness, accepting it as part of life.

She would never compare herself with any piece of technology but quite simply the facts do not compute. In her brain Sherlock is dead and in her sitting room Sherlock is alive. He has clashed with her neat order of grieving, destroying her coping strategies. That is why she is not dealing well with this new information. He, as a man who is resurrected, has no place in her system anymore and all the bottled up feelings she could not allow have spurted forth as she tries to make sense of the whole dataset.

"Tea, John" He motions to the kitchen with a hand to the side, breaking the doctor's concerned and memorised stupor. Anyone would think he'd never seen someone react like this. The man must have seen grief and pain in unbridled measure during his time in the army, and by very necessity created some pattern of coping, of dealing, of guiding those around him through the mire of brokenness. And yet John does not move an inch.

"I said tea. Why are you _not_ making tea?"

"Sod off, Sherlock, now's not the time."

"_For Mrs Hudson_."

"Ah. Right. Wait, are we seeing the same woman sitting there, _sobbing_? In her state, plying her with hot liquids doesn't seem wise to..."

Her cries mellow as John protests and Sherlock notes she inhales a little deeper, deeper again, steadying her hand on the armrest, and what's left is their landlady looking a tad put out like she's caught a whiff of an unfortunate odour. Then she blinks and peers cheerfully up at John directly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Tea would be lovely, John dear. Go perfect with the scones I baked this morning, I'll just go fetch some shall I? Jam too? I'll have a root about in the fridge, might have leftover cream in the back. Wouldn't do to have scones without cream, not when there's jam involved. Be back in two ticks."

Her voice is raw, grating, she strains to get the first few phrases out but she manages. Predictable as her vocal chords are scathed and throat parched from the rushed air drawn in and out over the four minutes the episode lasted. When she is gone, John flicks the kettle on, dumps two teabags in the teapot and slumps into the chair.

"What? What is it, Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't be about to be subjected to an unnecessary afternoon tea if you'd done as I said when I asked initially."

"I'm so sorry I don't trust your impeccable judgement on the precise timing of tea for our guests."

"With your medical background you should have realised she would need a drink."

"It had occurred to me, yes. I just didn't know when it was going to end and I refuse to believe you were anything but lucky on that guess."

"I'm never lucky, John."

"Says the man who admitted to me he had calculated a, what was it, 30% chance of missing his mark when he slumped over the side of a 60ft building."

"I did not slump!"

"Whatever."

"It was precise, I -"

"Hope the tea's done, got the scones all ready," Mrs Hudson piped up from the landing.

John shuffled off to quickly deposit the forgotten hot water in the pot, as she rounded the doorframe, entering with a silver tray packed to the brim with modest plates, dainty pots and the appropriate cutlery.

"Here we go," she cooed, placing the whole thing matter of factly on top of the massive tiled three deep stacks of books spread out evenly across the coffee table. "Feels like an age since we did this. Must do it more often. You look like you need feeding up, Sherlock, anyone'd think you'd been living on the streets."

Mrs Hudson sat in the armchair, as composed as she was generally inclined to be and chattering onwards, conversation skipping to the goings on of the two men habituating several doors down. John occupied the spaces in the dialogue with suitable 'Oh really's, 'That's nice' and other short niceties, designed to cover up the fact he was as he spoke agitating the brew into existence with a spoon.

Finally done, John presented the teapot with mittened hands. Finding the table, and expected heatproof mat that he tended to misappropriate from the bunsen burner setup, fully occupied John settled the pot on the floor as his relegated choice, punctuating his decision with a well read copy of Treasure Island slipped underneath it.

Sherlock weighed up the prudence of protesting sharply and/or damning the tea, saving the book from damage with a swift move. Expediency would be key, indecision meant the moment came and went without any more ruin than a slight scorch on the thick cover and damp corners, able to age into characterful watermarks. No one corrected that it **had** been an age and he didn't point out he had in fact spent months working mostly inside the homeless network.

For all the inane topics that escaped Mrs Hudson's lips, a lot went unsaid at 221B. Which made it mostly a slice of a day like any other. Gossip he could see coming a mile away and baked goods being forced on them. Boring. Predictable. Safe. A dose of what they needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

- Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade -

Don't Trust The Voices

Sherlock is never really gone for Greg Lestrade.

Other people would spout off sentimental reams about how a person lives on in the memory of those left behind. If that's true then it'd be a damn shame, what with a large proportion on England blaming Sherlock for insurmountable crimes, mocking him in the papers and the crux of half the jokes on all the topical news shows.

For Greg the insufferable git is ever present in the thin sharp thoughts that spin around his mind, picking at his decisions - the critical little voice he'd always had, and would guess is the completing factor to his psyche. It is the ego to his super-ego and id, if he believes that tripe from the one psych class he'd taken and flunked long ago at uni.

Either way it's there, has been there for a while. Without him noticing at first, it had taken on characteristics of the consulting detective. At some point he'd even considered it helpful. After all, if he could develop a talent for thinking like Sherlock, even in character as it was, then he wouldn't need the real one as much and everyone's lives would be a tad easier. Plus, he reasoned, he'd get more credit for himself.

All very sensible at the time. Greg reckons that was a mistake. A big stinking error of judgement, because now, that voice in the back of his head is snidely remarking about all the holes in the stories he reads, expanding his doubts until they blow up in his face. It's a cruel form of internal accounting which makes him ignore the warnings from his superiors to let it all drop.

It would be easier to think Sherlock was wrong, _let him be wrong_ the rest of him begs. It hurts too much if he died when he was right; when Greg stood on by and let them do, say, what they - the force - thought was best. He can't stand by any more, better late than never. _Let it hurt_, doesn't he deserve that? The voice says it is of no consequence, any of it. Store the emotions away, solve the mystery. Nothing less is proper and anything more is unnecessary, distracting.

Just briefly Greg's life finds a singleminded purpose. Channelling his grief, he eats and breathes and dreams the data. He does it to near destruction.

He might want to say he investigates it to vindicate himself or because he has faith in Sherlock, both are decent reasons by most people's standards but he does it because he knows if he doesn't there's that voice, on standby in his head. The voice would be oh so irritated to find him going on sentimentality or flimsy excuses of instinct and happy to point out the dreary average foolishness of letting himself believe one lie or the other. This is why Greg has to know for himself, to sort through the evidence and find the truth, categorically.

And the truth, as much as he considers it from the facts, does not comes out. Of course, they can't find proof of fault, as if everything he was involved in could have been orchestrated. Leads trail off, nothing that was thought to be real and undeniable has any substance in the end. Sherlock could saunter in the front door and they'd have absolutely nothing to arrest him for. The case fades, the stories don't though. The damage is done and what good are retractions when he's dead?

Everyone would rather forget, shuffle away from the embarrassment of the whole thing. In a manner of speaking he's off the hook, same as Sherlock would be, yet there's those questioning looks. Those who didn't believe before are unchanged, at best neutral, they won't ever believe and by extension Greg is shamed, ostracised. The doubt sticks far past the machinations of the rumour mill. He had placed his trust in someone, an outsider to them, and to all appearances it was shattered. No amount of picking up the pieces, showing them it is whole again, not really broken, will do. Despite the illusions, to them it will never be untouched. When he realises this he decides he'd do just as well to forget too; equally forget the sly comments on how he's not doing his best and the bitter taste in his mouth working late at night that's got nothing to do with the vile instant coffee.

Forging ahead he dismisses the last reminder of his consultant. Sometimes he hears it anyway, unable to quieten the noise, and he goes ahead, doing whatever it is inadvisable.

Greg has one more drink and phones the ex. Greg accepts her words at face value when she tells him she hasn't got a new bloke.

Greg leaves the interesting case alone 'til the morning. Greg goes home to sleep next to his not-so-ex-wife and then Greg gets much less sleep than intended or healthy as it turns out, and that pique of inspiration he'd had before dissipates with a fizz overnight.

Greg tries not to care.

He's known for weeks the trivial tale his ex had told him. No new bloke, nah, the deception is more tricky from her. What she'd said was correct. Correct and predictably incomplete. No new new bloke didn't mean no new lover. She comes home with lipstick marks in places too impossible to be her own and smelling of perfume she hadn't put on herself.

Greg tries not to care.

That he's spiting _a voice in his head_, becoming a worse detective, a worse person for the sake of an insane feud with his imaginary version of a dead man. One that is unnervingly true to type. He can never truly be rid of it, never truly wants to in fact. His voice is shouting out mentally, incorrigible and insistent, starving him of attention creates simply more furore, more vitriol. Like the man himself, the voice has never been mean intentionally. It is realistic about motivations, logical about problems and unable to stop for a second when it latches on to a clue, part of a case or not. There is no filter, only a torrent of thoughts - it tends to tell him everything he wants to know and plenty he doesn't wish to acknowledge too.

Is it better to feed the beast, to find peace?

The question is pointless. There's little peace in his life, there are merely times he's very busy and times he's not quite so much. Downtime has never been his forte, he has to be occupied with something – be it on the job, be it a drink down the pub, cases or people, whichever works – or he gets irritable. He's a remarkable semblance of a good man, sympathy in the right places and tact, but he knows deep down that voice is singularly his, with the cutting baritone a convenient disguise to give it distance.

The professional in Lestrade wants to be the best and happens to have the good sense to restrict the precise ruthlessness to his own inner monologue, because best isn't measured in intellect alone. Sherlock had never bothered to learn that distinction and honestly he'd been secretly a little jealous that Sherlock got away with saying things he wished he could, in amongst the disjointed social incomprehension and the connections in cases Greg hadn't yet made.

"Ms Vert. In the conservatory. All you need now is group of clueless 7 year old's to tick off all the options until they find the obvious solution. Oh wait, this is Scotland Yard, half of you've got the equivalent mental age of pre-teens so you ought to be just fine."

As soon as the comment registers clearly he is startled, that's not something he'd expect of himself. Surely there's no part of his brain that thinks like _that_?

He hears Anderson groan behind him and cranes his neck to spy out the cause, panicked he might have actually said it out loud for once.

He has never been more reassured by the sight of the appropriate accompanying face to the drawled insult that flips fast in the voice, discovering it coming from Sherlock's lips. Live in the flesh, every bit as irritating to the forensics team within 5 seconds of entry to the room. So, Greg can tell himself he doesn't have a repressed hate of Anderson after all, or at least, not as exaggerated a dislike as that.

"Lestrade. How's the ex-wife and her lesbian lover? Well, I trust, and not impeding your lateral thinking overly. I see you've already spotted four of the pertinent points key to this murder, shame about the other eight you and your blue-suited buffoons have tiresomely missed in the other rooms."

For Sherlock Holmes it's practically small talk. He's kind of missed it, except not entirely. One was enough and here he is with bloody two of them practically, one in his head and one in his crime scene. Greg hopes a little devilishly this means he can beat Sherlock at his own game, just once. Probably not today though, it's going to take a while for the shock to wear off. He calmly shuts his gaping mouth and attempts to regain his dignity.

As it is Greg counts to ten, gathering together all his patience, as he is wont to need around Sherlock and he's out of practice – up there he can think whatever he wants back at him, unrestrained.

For once the voice is silent, but he can tell what it would ask, exactly what he is about to. _How?_ Greg doesn't know the method to Sherlock's deception, so neither does his other self. However much it might sound like Sherlock, that part of his mind, the difference is his'll never be as great.

And maybe, just maybe, the real one will manage to be the great and the good in the end, as well as his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: For mentions of alcoholism in this chapter & imagery of self-harm in later chapter.

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

- John Watson -

Watsons Should Not Drink

"No less than thirty pieces! You know what that means. Thirty crime scenes - "

"Thirty different new inspectors to aggravate? Thirty outrageously priced rush hour taxi fares?"

Genetic predisposition, Sherlock rationalises to himself. That's why John turns to drink, and why when faced with dazzling facts and marvellous gruesome crimes that he would metaphorically kill for, John predictably eyes the cupboard in the corner wistfully; the holder of Mycroft's Scotch. He knows John doesn't like Scotch, bitter vile burning liquid that sears the cells. John does, however, _think_ he _needs_ a drink.

"Thirty bits of the puzzle. So much data it will be -"

"A tedious amount of time travelling? Hard to dress for? The weather is pretty variable, everything going bonkers about town at the moment I hear."

Replacing one addiction with another is an all too familiar situation Sherlock remembers disturbingly well regardless of the temporal distance acquired from what Mycroft called his 'disgrace'. A dalliance, unlike John's habit. Both ultimately inadvisable and unsustainable long-term.

"Yes, yes, gales in the north. Wear a coat then."

"And a hat?" John asks, clearly feigning innocence.

"Don't you dare bring that monstrosity."

It's about all the work, again he has to remind John, has to re-tempt the man with brilliance winning over the old numbness. The cases hold less appeal these days, though that peculiar brand of normality involving dismembered body parts and clever if regular minded criminals expands to fill the world and push out the dullness of their intermission. John resists his urges, nobly, moving his gaze if not his full attention back to Sherlock, away from the secretly emptied cupboard, and Sherlock makes no jibes – the game is on.

The game is not the same anymore. Sherlock has returned to a life changed and he dislikes the new rules they are taken with, written in their subtle shift of behaviour. The deductions of his friend and others he is tied to thrill him less and less.

"Thirty chunks of dirtied human flesh dumped in a variety of locations, John. Imagine it. Every piece has been on its own journey and Lestrade doesn't even know if they're all from the same person yet, too early to tell. If only every Tuesday could begin like this."

It's decided they take the case. **He'd** never not take this one but the money issue is quibbled over briefly until Sherlock thrusts a wad of cash into his friend's hands.

"Taxi fare, you can handle it."

There may also happen to be enough in £20 notes for two month's rent. Bills are details he doesn't care for. John is the practical one, the grounded one and he figures that is part of the reason John chose to drink himself almost into oblivion, out of his mind, shackled to a numbed body; huddled away from all the what ifs, nagging doubts and the undying desire to believe.

Sherlock does not wait for an acknowledgement, instead bounding out the door, snagging his coat off the hook as the hunt starts afresh. John eventually follows him out the door, proceeds to stare out of the window in the cab at London milling and he questions, teases and smiles (in a total of five different ways) at all appropriate points in the conversation about Ms. Miller - the budding pop singer whose head made identification of victim No. 1 easy – and her fractious entry into stardom. Sherlock knows John watches the pubs and bars along the route, calculating distances. It will take more than cases to tempt John back to himself.

"I've texted you a list of addresses. Ms Miller's 'friends'. No doubt mostly vapid human specimens. I want you to interview them. "

"By myself?"

"I've already eliminated them as prime suspects."

"Glad to hear your hacking skills haven't gotten rusty."

"We'll cover more ground if you stick to what you're good at and I focus on time-efficient analysis of the multiple locations involved."

"You must be happy if you're giving out compliments."

"That's a statement of fact. More of a you'll do. _I _could, of course, charm them with my presence but I want them comfortable, vulnerable, liable to slip up. They're more likely to do that with a man who reminds them of a kindly older brother or young uncle. Record the conversations with your phone."

Following perfect timing Sherlock sprung from the vehicle as it pulled up beside J. Wilson Pawn Brokers, slammed the door and instructed the cabbie onward to Cambridge Theatre.

John didn't move to resist the plan Sherlock was implementing and so Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape with an unseen smile on his face as the taxi pulled away, having left John to the arduous task of talking to Ms. Miller's friends. Friends contemporary to John's age despite his comments, decidedly average too, judging by their Facebook antics.

Talking to people would help John. Talking to women who John probably deemed attractive, and who on the bonus side might provide either clues or a date, was merely a more fortunate circumstance to present. Too long had John waited for him, forgetting he needed other people. Substituting one addiction with another never worked out well ultimately. You had to want life.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: For imagery of self-harm in this chapter.

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

- Molly Hooper -

Cutting Is For Professionals Only

It takes him shockingly long to figure out Molly's secret. That she has one is obvious, to him at least. When he is about she nervously tugs on her sleeves, is paler, jumpier. He expects it to be some unfathomable development in her feelings for him, as observing her without her knowing his presence reveals her to be calm and confident, left with the tiniest hint of nervousness - the pull on her sleeves, hiding a little more - he relegates to characteristic of her.

A revelation comes from observing her without anyone else about. Her job is, he expects by his standards, monotonous, repetitive. Autopsy, autopsy, dull, dull. The unique specimens he is interested in are rare. Lesser cases he guesses hold her interest more than he, though her manner with any body had always been one of relish when she got down to the nitty gritty, opening up an entirely new person ready to be explored and death given reason.

Sherlock watches her now, witnessing a woman who looks almost as dead as the man on her slab. The cut is clinical, expert, and the recording taken speaks of a pathologist slower on the uptake than he would be, yet missing nothing he can gleam at this reach. He puzzles her sudden detachment every time he sees her and watches her playing the cheery girl wandering around the lab, flat jokes and betraying blush that is all wrong. John doesn't see anything amiss. Molly plays herself excellently.

**The** revelation comes much later, again from observing her without anyone else about. It is pure luck he gets the drop on her, accidentally, via storming in with no warning. This is what the jumpiness is about, he catches her post act. A fresh scalpel in hand. A pleasant smile on her face setting the contrast to recent tears. Relief. A smart neat cut on the forearm, a drop of blood beading from it. Small enough to be passed off as the work of her feline companion, the length disguising the lack of jaggedness.

Molly looks at him, startled at first, then solid and cold once more, both her mask and the joy of the interlude dropped, turning to the mood he has spied several times when she is alone. She places the instrument in the tray for sterilisation, beside ten more. At this time of day she could at best have managed five, maybe six run-of-the-mill autopsies so far.

She never pretends in front of him again. The others are confused but they think bad day the first couple of times. When it happens more often than not they click that it's about him, assume she is mad at him. Sherlock can't be sure she's not.

He carries on all business at Bart's every time and he just happens to pay attention to the whispers when he sweeps down the corridor into her room, or the looks, and the words left unsaid, when people see him casually ask a favour in the canteen.

He's always trusted her. _Everyone_ has always trusted her. She has always been clever too. Bad at conversation, yet good enough at social cues so she understood where he has missed it. Because of him, fallen and risen, they no longer trust her. They don't whisper _unprofessional_, everyone is too forgiving to accuse. They don't spit _weak_ or _foolish_ or _stupid girl_ but they think them. They stare at Molly Hooper and they are reminded of the scandal; the pitfall of a corruption that any one of them could happily commit for the right person.

The solution to the damage he's caused eludes him. Molly's tray keeps holding extra scalpels. People appear to forget; Molly does not. He does not. He keeps an eye on her with an intensity she previously would have cherished and she sees, resents what she thinks is pity, accepts it nevertheless. One day, an unknown date to him, she stops and gradually she warms. When she grins broadly on another day some point after that, at his suggestion to flay the corpse of a 30 year old man on simulated heart bypass, Sherlock pauses. Determining it is not a mask she is donning for his or her own benefit, he feels a weight lifted, a final reprieve from the watch he's imposed, and grins himself. The pair of them hang there like Cheshire cats for several seconds, gleeful and each going over a mental checklist of required equipment.

"Let's get Mr Morgan comfortable then. You can get him in position, Sherlock. I'll go sign out the apparatus."

The evermore direct Molly hasn't receded to mousy status with the return of her passion, meaning she demands rather than asks him. Sherlock doesn't protest. No matter her reputation she has a far greater chance of being granted permission with few strings attached and he'd otherwise have to wade in paperwork for days, which would be boring for both him waiting and John filling it out.

Sherlock opens the door, slides out the drawer and within five minutes is unzipping the body bag on the table.

"Ah Mr Morgan, software developer. You dreamt of what you'd do for modern science but you had no idea."


End file.
